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Chapter Text

The city-state of Okhema shimmered like an unending mirror under the blazing suns of Amphoreus. From the balcony of the Presidential Spire, Phainon watched morning light fracture across glass towers and rivers of silver traffic. The capital seemed born to impress, a masterpiece of unification, each district once its own city-state now folded beneath the same banner of progress.

He should have felt pride. Instead, he felt the slow tightening of an invisible collar. Today was the Inter-City Summit; his mother’s crowning diplomatic project and, by extension, his unspoken performance review before the entire planet.

Ever since Aglaea had become President of Okhema, more and more eyes had turned toward him, waiting for the slightest misstep to be read as proof of her failure. As if to say: What else could one expect from a single mother? If she cannot even raise her adopted son properly, how could she possibly govern a nation? And worse still: Where did Aglaea pick up that boy? Blood will tell, sooner or later.

Phainon had heard enough of those murmurs to know how easily respect could turn into suspicion. But he also knew better. He had seen the exhaustion behind her composure: the sleepless nights, the trembling hands that never showed in public. He never doubted her love; it was constant, quiet, the kind that held entire cities together. But the weight she carried left little room for softness. So when her voice turned cool or her gaze distant, he learned not to take it as rejection, but as endurance.

He did not want to give anyone reason to question her choice. If carrying himself like a symbol could protect her from that scrutiny, if being perfect could make them forget he was not her blood, then he would do it without complaint. Helping her, proving himself worthy of her sacrifices, had become the only way he knew to show his gratitude, and to say he loved her, too.

President Aglaea stood a few paces behind him, calm in a sea-green suit that matched her eyes and complemented her light, golden hair.

“You look thoughtful,” she said, stepping beside him. “That’s good. Thoughtful photographs better than nervous.”

Phainon smiled faintly. “You always sound as if the press is another branch of government.”

“It is,” Aglaea replied. “And today, they will be watching not just me but you. Remember, Okhema’s strength lies in grace. No one out-smiles us.”

He inclined his head, the gesture half-military, half-son. “Understood.”

The Hall of Concord blazed with banners from every major city-state. Transparent walls offered a view of Okhema’s skyline, so that every handshake happened beneath the watch of its reflected towers.

Phainon moved through a tide of dignitaries, shaking hands, reciting names, performing diplomacy as choreography.

From the Grove of Epiphany, Sage Anaxagoras arrived robed in living cloth threaded with faint green light, a walking metaphor for the Grove’s creed of intellect entwined with nature.

“My boy,” the sage declared, gripping Phainon’s arm, “you’ve built a city that mirrors the sun. I have been to Okhema many times, but every time I am still amazed by its splendor. I hope you do not forget, however: mirrors only shine when facing the light.”

“Then we’ll make sure ours never turns away,” Phainon replied smoothly.

Behind the sage, Hyacinthia rolled her eyes, the polite exasperation of a student used to translating metaphors into policy.

Phainon watched the two as they moved toward the president to offer their greetings. Sage Anaxa (though Phainon would never dare call him that to his face) had always been eccentric, but then, he supposed, all geniuses were, in one way or another. Hyacine, on the other hand, was steady and down-to-earth, sharp without arrogance and far easier to negotiate with, which made Phainon’s life as a diplomat considerably simpler when she was the one at the table.

As Anaxagoras and Hyacine moved off to greet Aglaea, Phainon exhaled, half amused, half exhausted. Every conversation here felt like a negotiation — even the friendly ones.

Still, there were faces he didn’t mind seeing again. 

Snapping back to attention, Phainon turned to the next arrivals. From Janusopolis came Mayor Tribios, her presence carrying the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen both the rise and ruin of fortunes, and learned from both. She smelled faintly of sea breeze and spiced wine, a blend of familiarity and promise.

“Phainon,” she greeted warmly, her voice as even as he remembered. “You’ve grown well since our last trade conference. I half expected you to still be that restless boy arguing with me about tariffs.”

He chuckled. “I still argue. I’ve just learned to smile while doing it.”

Tribios laughed, a light, airy sound. “Good. The world listens longer when you smile first.”

As she moved to greet Aglaea, Phainon found himself watching her — still struck by how her gentleness seemed at odds with her title. The head of the City of a Thousand Gates, the trading capital of Amphoreus, should have been sharper. But he suspected that beneath her calm tone and kind eyes, she had a few tricks sharper than any merchant’s blade.

Then the cool air shifted as Princess Castorice of Aidonia swept in, her gown glinting like frost under the chandeliers. She rarely ventured beyond her mountain realm, but when she did, she carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who knew her worth.

Phainon had spoken with her a few times before — pleasant, formal exchanges over trade and ceremony — yet each left him wondering how he might draw her kingdom a little closer to Okhema. Aidonia’s mines glittered with gemstones; Okhema, after all, had never been shy about its love for what shines.

Castorice inclined her head, voice smooth and cool as marble. “Okhema seems to grow brighter with every season,” she said. “Perhaps Aidonia’s stones might find a place in that light.”

Phainon returned her smile with diplomatic ease. “The sun welcomes every reflection, Your Highness. Especially those cut from crystal.”

As she drifted away toward the other dignitaries, the temperature of the room seemed to change again, frost giving way to salt and steel. The rhythmic sound of boots on marble marked the arrival of Styxia’s envoy, and with it came the faint, clean scent of the sea.

Hysilens of Styxia entered with the precision of a tide cutting through still water. Tall, poised, and sharp-eyed, she was elegance distilled to discipline — every movement measured, every glance deliberate. She was a lady of few words, but each one carried the weight of command. In Styxia, it was said that her voice could still a council faster than a sword could end a duel, and that her word held the same authority as the Imperator’s.

Her presence reminded Phainon of the city she represented: a realm of ports and warships, where every harbor thrummed with order and danger in equal measure. She clasped his hand once, her grip steady. “Let’s see if this year’s summit sails smoother than the last,” she murmured, her tone balanced perfectly between jest and challenge; a test he couldn’t help but meet with a smile.

Phainon barely had time to breathe before he heard the herald’s voice announce: “His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos, accompanied by Commander Krateros.”

The effect was immediate. Conversation died mid-sentence; even the air seemed to hold still, as if the entire hall braced for impact.

The Kremnoan delegation entered like a living blaze, uniforms of deep red and gold catching the chandeliers’ light with every deliberate step. They moved with the discipline of soldiers and the pride of kings, a force that belonged more to legend than ceremony.

At their head walked Mydeimos. The Lion Prince. The embodiment of Kremnos’s fire-forged will.

He was tall, precise, every motion tempered to purpose; his gold insignia gleaming against crimson fabric, not as ornament, but as proof. The light touched him and did not pass through; it held, refracted, became something fiercer.

Phainon had seen him before, of course, in broadcasts, in reports, in all the polished myth of royal propaganda. But up close, the reality was different. Sharper. More human. The severity was still there, but beneath it burned a quiet precision that felt alive.

And when those golden eyes met his across the aisle — blue against gold, sun against flame — the air between them changed. Just a flicker, a heartbeat. But it was enough to make Phainon forget, for a moment, that the Summit was still watching.

Mydeimos bowed first to Aglaea, his posture flawless. “President of Okhema,” he said evenly. “My mother, Queen Gorgo, sends her regards, and her hopes for a fruitful conference in this summit.”

Then his gaze shifted to Phainon. The change was subtle but distinct, like steel catching light. “And to her son,” Mydeimos continued, “whose reputation seems to travel faster than most diplomats.”

Phainon’s smile came easily, practiced, polished. “I hope it’s at least the flattering kind of reputation.”

A faint pause. “Flattering,” Mydei echoed, his tone smooth as glass. “Not always. But rarely undeserved.”

Their words hung between them, courteous on the surface, edged beneath.

Phainon’s grin didn’t waver. “Then perhaps we’ll see whose stories hold truer by the end of the summit.”

For an instant, the air tightened, too sharp, too bright, until both men stepped back into formality’s shelter once more.

A draw. The kind that didn’t end in words, only promised future battlefields.

The banquet unfolded beneath a dome of crystal light. Music drifted from an unseen quartet; servers wove through the tables like clockwork. Conversation shimmered and broke like waves across the room.

Phainon sat beside Mydei, close enough to feel the faint warmth that seemed to radiate from him, like standing too near a sacred forge. Across the table, Sage Anaxagoras was already lecturing Mayor Tribios on the moral philosophy of tariffs, Hyacine translating in crisp annoyance. Princess Castorice nodded politely to every speaker with practiced grace, while Hysilens watched the whole display with the cool amusement of someone who saw more than most would pay attention to.

Phainon did what he always did: he smiled, listened, and performed. But tonight, his focus kept straying, not to the speeches or the glittering plates, but to the stillness beside him.

Mydei ate with mechanical precision, movements efficient yet restrained. Even the act of cutting his food seemed calculated, as if he feared revealing too much humanity in the motion. When spoken to, he answered politely, but his tone carried a quiet finality — a voice used to command, not conversation.

Phainon tilted his glass toward him, breaking the silence with an easy lilt. “So,” he said, “how does the Crown of Might find our City of Light?”

Mydei’s gaze flicked to him, steady and unreadable. “Dazzling,” he replied. “Though light, I’ve found, obscures as much as it reveals.”

Phainon’s smile curved sharper. “And power protects as easily as it destroys. We all have our contradictions.”

“Formality,” Mydei said, setting down his fork, “unlike improvisation, does not crumble under pressure.”

The table quieted; laughter dying mid-breath, glasses stilled halfway. Hyacine winced preemptively; Anaxagoras muttered something about tact and youth.

Phainon inhaled to answer, but as he shifted his glass, his sleeve brushed the base of the decanter. A sudden jolt, a flash of gold, and solar nectar spilled in a gleaming arc across Mydei’s immaculate uniform.

Gasps rippled through the hall. Cameras clicked like insects.

Mydei froze, the heat between them collapsing into a brittle silence. For a heartbeat, disbelief flickered through his composure. Not anger, but something sharper, colder. Then he stood, every motion deliberate, regal.

“Accidents happen,” he said evenly. “I should change.”

Krateros appeared almost instantly, jaw tight. The commander’s hand hovered near Mydei’s shoulder, protective, as he guided Mydei away.

Phainon remained seated, the wet ring of his glass bright against the tablecloth. Around him, whispers bloomed like smoke. Across the hall, Aglaea’s public smile was flawless, but her eyes, even from here, told him exactly how deep the embarrassment cut.

The reception limped on, the music a brittle echo.

Mayor Tribios leaned toward him with a grin that tried too hard to be kind. “Well, you’ve guaranteed tomorrow’s headlines. Not the worst way to make an impression.”

Phainon managed a thin smile. “Pity impressions don’t trade as well as goods.”

From the Grove’s table, Hyacine caught his eye — calm, assessing, never unkind. “You fly close to bright things, Phainon,” she said quietly. “Just remember: the sun doesn’t notice who burns around them.”

He nodded once, accepting the truth in it without defense. “Then I’ll learn to shine brighter than the sun.”

Across the room, Hysilens of Styxia raised her glass in a small, deliberate toast, amusement flickering in her sea-gray eyes. Even Princess Castorice, poised as marble, regarded him with a look that might have been sympathy… or curiosity.

At last, Aglaea’s hand found his shoulder. Her touch was light, her voice even lighter. “Enough damage control for one night. Go. I’ll handle the press.”

He bowed his head. “Mother—”

“Later,” she said, her tone the practiced calm of someone who could not afford anger in public. Then she turned away, her smile already restored, her composure sealing the crack he’d left in the evening’s perfect facade.

Phainon exhaled slowly. The music swelled again, bright and hollow, as he slipped from the room like a shadow no one wanted to follow.

The corridor beyond the banquet hall was mercifully silent. Phainon walked until he found an open balcony and stepped into the night.

Okhema stretched beneath him, rivers of silver and white light, flowing like molten glass, streets pulsing in measured rhythm. From here, the city looked eternal, untouchable. He wished he could believe it.

Somewhere above, a transport engine ignited. He looked up in time to see the Kremnoan vessel ascending, its thrusters burning red-gold, a wound and a promise carved across the indigo sky. The glow traced a fierce path across the indigo sky, dissolving into darkness.

He should have felt only humiliation. Yet what lingered wasn’t shame but the quiet ache of heat — that pulse that remains when brilliance brushes against flame and does not quite let go. He thought of Mydeimos’s composure, the calm intensity in his gaze, the way restraint itself had glowed like tempered fire.

Phainon exhaled, the breath turning to mist in the cool air. Below him, Okhema gleamed, a city of reflection. Above him, the Kremnoan prince disappeared into the dark, leaving behind a faint shimmer of gold, as if even absence could burn.

Between them stretched the whole world of Amphoreus, waiting for its next collision.

He turned back inside, already hearing the chatter of incoming news, already composing apologies that would never sound sincere. And yet, somewhere behind the practiced diplomacy of his smile, another thought sparked and refused to die:

So that’s what it feels like, to be burned, and still wanting to touch the flame again.

Chapter Text

Morning broke too bright for comfort. The sun in Okhema always rose like an audience — relentless, expectant, eager for spectacle.

Phainon sat at his breakfast table, ignoring a plate of untouched fruit as the holoscreens around him flared to life. Every channel carried the same headline:

“THE OKHEMAN HEIR AND THE KREMNOAN PRINCE: DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT OR PUBLICITY STUNT?”

Clips replayed the moment in slow motion: his hand brushing the glass, Mydeimos’s immaculate uniform drenched in gold, the stunned silence of the Summit. Each broadcast dissected the scene like it was an autopsy of peace.

He shut the holos off. The silence that followed was worse.

The door slid open with a soft chime. Cipher, the president’s executive secretary, entered first. Composed as ever, dressed in Okhema’s signature white and blue palette, a tablet already in hand. Her tone was equal parts professional and teasing, something Phainon had always wondered how she managed to do so.

“Morning, kiddo,” she said lightly. “I’d ask if you slept well, but given the news cycle, that would be cruel.”

Phainon groaned. “How bad?”

“On a scale of one to ‘international incident,’ we’re comfortably at ‘talk show fodder.’” She set the tablet on the table, flicking through feeds with practiced grace. “You’re a meme, by the way. Someone looped the spill to the beat of the Okheman anthem.”

He shot her a look. “Delightful.”

“Flattering, even,” she said, tone dry but amused. “The lighting was excellent.”

Before he could answer, the door opened again. Aglaea entered, poised and severe in an ecru suit that shimmered faintly with the morning light. Cipher straightened, but not before shooting Phainon a subtle look that said brace yourself.

Aglaea didn’t waste time with greetings. She never did when strategy replaced family. “You’ve made quite the impression,” she said, projecting a series of holoscreens in front of his untouched breakfast. “The press is calling it The Spill Heard Around Amphoreus.”

Phainon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clever.”

“Counterproductive.” She tapped the top tablet, which showed Queen Gorgo’s face — serene, unreadable. “Kremnos is furious. Their palace has declined every apology so far.”

“Because they don’t want apologies,” Phainon said, leaning back. “They want humiliation.”

“They want reassurance,” Aglaea corrected. “They want to see that Okhema respects their traditions. Right now, they see arrogance.”

Phainon looked at her with tired eyes. “You think I did it on purpose.”

“The cameras think you did,” she said quietly. “Intent does not matter when the world has already chosen your motive.”

Cipher, standing nearby, broke the thickening silence. “For what it’s worth,” she said, tapping her stylus against the tablet, “you’ve both survived worse news cycles. Remember the ‘Floating Garden Scandal’? The world ended for a week, and then everyone got distracted by a famous actor's engagement.”

Aglaea exhaled through her nose. “This isn’t a garden party, Cifera.”

“No, Madam President,” Cipher said evenly, “but it’s also not a war. Yet.” Her eyes flicked to Phainon, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Try to look a little more devastated, sir. The sympathy ratings could use a boost.”

Despite himself, Phainon’s lips twitched. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Professionally,” Cipher replied. “Disaster management is one of my strongest suits.”

Aglaea shot her a look somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement. “Draft a statement. Something contrite but not self-flagellating.”

“Already done,” Cipher said. “And if I may,” she looked between mother and son, “you both need breakfast more than another crisis meeting. Eat something. Reputations recover faster on a full stomach.”

Aglaea arched an eyebrow. “Are you giving me orders now?”

“Suggestions,” Cipher said with a faint grin. “Strongly worded ones.”

Phainon chuckled under his breath, and even Aglaea’s expression softened, barely, but enough. Cipher noticed, of course. She always did.

“See?” Cipher said, gathering her tablets. “Progress. Ten minutes without an argument, that’s practically diplomacy.”

She moved toward the door, pausing just long enough to add, “And for the record, Mr. First Son? You could’ve done worse than spilling a little nectar on someone that intimidating. At least it’s memorable.”

Phainon blinked. “That’s your consolation?”

Cipher smiled over her shoulder. “Public relations runs on memory. Just... try not to make it a habit.”

The door slid shut behind her, leaving Aglaea and Phainon in silence again, though this time, it felt a little lighter.

By noon, the Hall of Unity was alive with diplomatic tension. The mirrored walls reflected every breath, every flicker of composure, until even silence felt performative.

Cipher stood a few steps behind President Aglaea’s chair, tablet in hand, posture perfectly still but alert. Every few seconds, her stylus moved in clean, efficient strokes, recording what would later become the official transcript no one would ever read in full.

The holo-link shimmered to life above the round table, projecting the regal presence of Queen Gorgo of Kremnos, robed in deep crimson and gold, her steel circlet catching the light like a blade in flame, eyes like polished stone.

“Mydeimos,” she said, without turning. The prince stood a pace behind her, as perfectly composed as before, his face betraying nothing. The image flickered once, stabilizing.

Aglaea’s tone was all poise. “Your Majesty, let me extend our sincerest regret—”

“Regret,” Gorgo cut in smoothly, “does not mend the impression that your city has mocked ours. My son’s dignity is not a costume for public amusement.”

Phainon sat beside his mother, jaw tight. The urge to defend himself coiled in his chest, but Aglaea’s hand on his arm silenced him.

Cipher didn’t look up from her notes, though one corner of her mouth lifted slightly. She had seen this play out before, in boardrooms and assemblies alike: pride bristling against politics, a son biting back fire for the sake of peace.

“We understand,” she said. “Which is why we propose a gesture of goodwill, one that demonstrates harmony, not tension.”

There was a pause. The queen inclined her head slightly, eyes sharp. “I’m listening.”

Aglaea continued, “Prince Mydeimos and my son will embark together on a public initiative, a joint cultural exchange between our cities. The first in decades.”

Phainon blinked. “Wait, what—”

Gorgo considered, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. “A public display of unity,” she murmured. “Clever.”

“Necessary,” Aglaea replied. “Let the world see our sons cooperate rather than compete.”

Behind the queen, Commander Krateros stood with his usual silent disapproval, while Mydeimos’s gaze flicked briefly toward Phainon. The prince’s voice, when it came, was quiet and precise.

“If it serves peace, I’ll comply.”

“Excellent,” Gorgo said. “Then it’s settled. You will begin in Castrum Kremnos. The First Son of Okhema will be our guest.”

The holo-call ended. The silence it left behind felt heavier than before. Cipher powered down her tablet without a word, stepping back as if to grant them privacy. The faint hum of the holo-projector still lingered in the air.

Phainon turned to Aglaea, disbelief barely contained. “You just volunteered me for a propaganda tour.”

“I volunteered you for survival,” she said evenly. “Optics matter more than pride.”

Cipher glanced between them once — the son’s clenched jaw, the mother’s unyielding calm — and then slipped quietly toward the door, already drafting the press release that would turn the morning’s humiliation into tomorrow’s diplomacy.

Phainon and Aglaea sat in silence, the air between them heavy with words neither dared speak. After a few heartbeats, he was the one to break the stillness.

“You treat me like I’m one of your staff,” he said, voice low. “You didn’t even ask.”

Aglaea’s reply was steady. “You’re not my staff, Phainon. You’re my legacy.”

He laughed, brittle. “I’m adopted, Mother. Your legacy has your eyes. I just wear your crest.”

For the first time, something flickered behind her calm, not anger, but hurt. “Legacy isn’t blood,” she said. “It’s the weight you choose to carry. I chose you because you could bear it.”

Her words left a hollow ache. He wanted to hate them; instead, he felt them settle like armor.

When he left her office, the corridors of the Spire stretched endless and gleaming, a palace built from glass, where every reflection was another expectation.

On the other side of the world, another pair of mother and son had been having their own silent conversation.

Queen Gorgo sat unmoving for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the empty space where Aglaea’s image had been. Her reflection caught the light from the mountain’s eternal furnaces below, casting faint glimmers across her steel circlet.

Behind her, Mydeimos stood at attention, as he always did, the perfect soldier, the perfect heir.

“You held yourself well,” she said at last, her voice low, steady. “No anger, no pride. Only poise befitting a ruler. Kremnos could not have asked for a better face to show the world.”

Mydei inclined his head slightly. “That is what is expected.”

Her lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile. “Expectation is a heavy chain, my son. Even for those born to wear it.”

He didn’t answer. He rarely did when she spoke like this, when her tone shifted from queen to mother, and her eyes softened with something close to tenderness.

Gorgo rose, her robes whispering against the marble floor. “You will host the Okheman scion. The eyes of Amphoreus will follow every step you take. Let them see restraint. Let them see strength. But above all, let them see that the Lion of Kremnos bows to no one.”

“Yes, Mother.” His tone was measured. Obedient, but not cold.

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “You speak as if obedience costs nothing.”

He looked down, just slightly, enough to betray the human beneath the crown. “It costs less than failure.”

Something flickered in her gaze. Pride, perhaps, or sorrow wearing its mask. She stepped closer, her hand brushing the edge of his shoulder plate. “Mydei,” she said softly, using the name she had not spoken in years.

He froze.

“When you were a child,” she continued, “you used to run to me after your lessons. You would tell me how the tutors said your mind burned too bright, that you argued too sharply, too fiercely. Do you remember what I told you then?”

His throat tightened. “You said a fire that never bends will burn itself out.”

“And you believed me.” Her hand lingered, warm and steady. “But now you bend for no one, not even yourself. That is strength… and danger both.”

He met her eyes at last, gold meeting gold, a reflection of the same flame carried through blood and duty. “If I bend, Kremnos breaks. You taught me that, too.”

She sighed, not weary, but wistful. “Then promise me this, my son: when the world tests you, do not lose the boy who believed in warmth as well as fire. He is the part of you that keeps the rest human.”

He bowed his head slightly, enough to honor her words without promising more than he could give. “I will remember.”

“Good.” She stepped back, her voice once more the queen’s. “Commander Krateros will make the necessary preparations. See that your guest is received with our traditional Kremnoan courtesy.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

When she turned away, the queen’s silhouette was carved in the light of the forges, eternal, unwavering. Only when the doors closed behind her did Mydei allow himself to exhale. His reflection glimmered faintly in the polished steel of his armor, composed, proud, and untouchable.

But somewhere beneath the perfection, a thought stirred, an echo of the boy she had once called Mydei, who had not yet learned that fire could wound as deeply as it could defend.

He straightened his collar, setting the crown of duty back upon his shoulders.

Castrum Kremnos blazed against the horizon, not cold and sunless, but a world forged in flame.

Where Okhema was glass and light, Kremnos was fire and iron, fortresses of red stone crowned in gold, their banners snapping like tongues of flame in the mountain wind. The air itself seemed to hum with restrained power, thick with the scent of steel and smoke.

From the observation deck of the shuttle, Phainon watched the city rise from the cliffs like a living ember, the heart of Amphoreus burning bright and unyielding. The closer they descended, the smaller he felt, as if the whole world bent toward that molten heart, daring him to match its heat.

A reception awaited at the landing court: ranks of soldiers in ceremonial garb, their armor gleaming like tempered fire beneath the mountain sun. Banners of red silk snapped in the wind, each bearing the lion sigil of Kremnos, proud, unbending, alive with motion.

At their center stood Mydeimos, flanked by Krateros, the prince radiant in scarlet and gold, as if he himself were the heart of the blaze.

Phainon adjusted his collar, brushing away invisible dust from his too-pristine white suit. Smile. Don’t flinch.

When he stepped down, the prince inclined his head, posture flawless. “Welcome to Castrum Kremnos, Envoy Prime of Okhema.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Phainon’s grin came automatically, though his pulse betrayed him. “No glasses this time.” He still wasn’t used to the title – Envoy Prime. A promotion born of damage control.

For a heartbeat, Mydei’s composure almost cracked. “We’ve replaced all fragile items, just in case.”

Krateros’ eyebrow twitched, from disapproval or amusement, it was hard to tell.

The cameras caught their handshake: two perfect symbols of reconciliation. The warmth of Mydeimos’s palm was brief, precise, gone too soon.

The tour began at once.

They moved through Kremnos. He was first brought to Akrion Keep, a citadel of carved terraces and tiered battlements. Soldiers trained in open courtyards; forges roared like sleeping beasts. Every street seemed built for endurance, not beauty.

“This was the first citadel to withstand the Blight Wars,” Mydeimos said as they passed an ancient memorial. “We rebuilt it after the siege without changing a single design. Endurance is tradition.”

Phainon smiled faintly. “So perfection leaves no room for improvement?”

“Perfection doesn’t exist. Endurance does.”

He wanted to argue, to laugh, to challenge that gravity, but the sincerity in Mydei’s tone disarmed him.

They continued through the Mountain Gardens, the only place in Kremnos where color dared to exist. Tiny crimson flowers grew between slabs of stone, tended by silent caretakers.

“Prince Mydeimos,” Phainon said softly, breaking their silence, “do you ever wish to see more of what lies beyond the mountains?”

The prince paused. “A prince does not wish,” he said at last. “He serves.”

The words settled between them like falling dust.

Phainon looked at him, really looked. Beneath the uniform, the poise, there was something else: the quiet fatigue of a man who had never been allowed to falter.

That evening, Queen Gorgo hosted a private dinner in the fortress’s Hall of Warriors. Golden torches lined the stone walls, their flames throwing long, spear-like shadows across carved reliefs of ancient battles.

Phainon did his best to charm; Mydei, to remain unreadable. Commander Krateros observed everything in silence: the prince’s restraint, and Phainon’s charm that occasionally cut too close to provocation.

When Aglaea’s name came up, the Queen’s voice carried the faintest edge. “Okhema changes its face often. Kremnos prefers its stone uncarved.”

Phainon smiled, too brightly. “Perhaps that’s why we make such fine complements, Your Majesty. You endure; we adapt.”

An insolent remark, the kind that would have earned a reprimand in any Kremnoan court. But Mydei said nothing. His silence was deliberate, steady, not condemnation, but control.

When at last the Queen and the commander withdrew, the room felt suddenly wider, the air lighter.

“Why didn’t you defend me?” Phainon asked quietly.

“I didn’t have to,” the prince replied. “There are times when silence speaks more clearly.”

Phainon tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

Mydei looked at him, and for the first time, something like warmth touched his gaze. “I’ve been told that before.”

Later that night, Phainon stood by the window of his guest chamber. Outside, Castrum Kremnos burned softly against the dark, towers lit by the steady glow of forge-fires and watchlights, a city that never truly slept.

Somewhere across the fortress, Mydei watched the same horizon, hands clasped behind his back.

The mountain winds carried embers into the sky, sparks that rose, flared, and vanished.

For a long moment, neither man moved.

And though they couldn’t see each other, they both felt the same quiet pull, the sense of something kindling, small yet unstoppable, like a flame finding air.

Perhaps, he thought, every flame needs something steady to burn for, and something distant to reach toward. 

His lips curved faintly, the words barely a whisper against the quiet night. What do you burn for, Prince Mydeimos?

Chapter Text

The city unfolded like a living theorem, each curve a proof of balance, each hanging terrace a meditation on grace.

The Grove of Epiphany rose from the cliffs of eastern Amphoreus in spiraling layers of pale green marble and flowering stone. Vines climb the exterior walls as if they, too, were scholars seeking the sun. Between the terraces, waterfalls traced patterns that glowed with drifting light, rivers of water and data, flowing side by side through the city’s veins.

Here, knowledge did not conquer nature; it conversed with it. The wind that turned the energy turbines also pollinated the gardens below. The libraries were grown from living wood, their walls whispering with photosynthetic code. Every balcony carried the murmur of debate, not about dominion, but coexistence.

For the people of the Grove, progress was not a race against the world but a dialogue with it, a promise that wisdom and nature could rise together, neither diminished, both alive.

For Mydeimos and Phainon, however, the Grove was the first stop on their diplomatic “Unity Tour,” an act of political theater meant to soothe the wound of their very public accident.

As their airship descended through the drifting canopy, Phainon pressed a hand to the window pane. Stepping outside for the first time, he could immediately sense how this place breathed differently from Okhema or Kremnos. There were no markets shouting for trade, no soldiers marching in practiced lines. Only quiet purpose, minds and roots entwined. The air itself seemed charged, intense, tasting faintly of ozone and old books.

“Welcome,” said Sage Anaxagoras, stepping forward. His robe shimmered with threads that caught the sunlight. His eyes were so clear that Phainon half expected to see equations reflected in them. “To the Grove of Epiphany, where knowledge neither begins nor ends, but simply… grows.”

Beside him stood Hyacine, who smiled when she met Phainon’s eyes. “Try not to touch anything glowing,” she whispered. “Last week, a delegate did and forgot his own name for two hours.”

Phainon chuckled under his breath. Mydeimos did not.

The symposium hall was a cathedral of light. Transparent petals of glass curved into an open dome, letting the midday sun pour over the assembled scholars. Each delegate city sat around a circular table, but all attention was on the two young men at its heart.

The topic: The Future of Civilization on Amphoreus.

Phainon could already tell what angle Mydeimos would take before the prince even spoke. He had that air of controlled certainty, of one who carried his nation’s centuries on his shoulders.

“Discipline,” Mydei said, his voice clear as chime metal. “Discipline is what preserves civilizations. Without it, the storms of time erode every wall, every ideal.”

His words carried weight, the kind Phainon had always envied. He was the son of a republic, not of blood or crown; his power was borrowed, not inherited.

When it was his turn, Phainon leaned forward, hands clasped. “Preservation is necessary,” he began, “but it’s not what saves us. Adaptation does. If a civilization refuses to bend, it will eventually break.”

The room buzzed. Mydei’s expression didn’t shift, but a faint spark lit his eyes. Not anger, but of interest. A challenge accepted.

For a moment, Phainon forgot the scholars, the audience, even the sun filtering through the dome. All he saw was the gleam in Mydeimos’s eyes, steady, unyielding, alive with quiet fire. His blood quickened in answer. This wasn’t just a debate; it was a duel fought with words instead of blades, and the prince across from him was no mere opponent, he was an equal. Phainon felt himself lean too far into the exchange, his arguments sharpening, his cadence quickening, drawn by the thrill of matching brilliance with brilliance. When the applause finally broke over the room, it startled him, like surf against stone, and he realized, with a flicker of embarrassment, just how completely he had let himself be pulled into the prince’s gravity.

The scholars around them murmured in approval. Anaxagoras looked intrigued. “Two philosophies, two halves of progress,” he said. “Discipline and change, the twin engines of our age.”

Phainon managed a smile, though his pulse hadn’t quite steadied. Inside, he felt scorched, not by disagreement, but by proximity. Mydeimos’s voice still lingered in his head, low and deliberate, its resonance unsettling in ways logic couldn’t explain. There was something powerful about that kind of certainty, the kind that could make faith sound like truth.

He told himself it was admiration, respect for a worthy opponent, nothing more. But as he glanced up and met the prince’s gaze again, the air between them seemed to hum, fine and bright as wire drawn too tight. Whatever it was, it left him restless.

That night, the city slept in murmurs of rain. Phainon couldn’t.

He walked through the terraces until he reached a hanging garden lit only by the glow of the pollen lamps. From here, the Grove’s spires looked like glass candles under a dark sea of stars.

Hyacine appeared from behind a pillar, balancing two cups of steaming tea. “You looked like someone who needed something warm or someone to tell you you’re not losing,” she said, offering one.

Phainon accepted it, smiling faintly. “Maybe both.”

“You and the prince,” she mused. “You talk as if you come from different worlds. But the way you look at the crowd? It’s the same.”

He turned to her. “What do you mean?”

She considered him for a moment, the corners of her mouth softening. “You both speak like men who know they’re being watched. Performing, not for an audience, but for approval you already possess. Everyone hangs on your words, yet you still look like you’re trying to earn the right to speak.”

He laughed softly. “You should teach diplomacy.”

“I teach logic,” she said with a wink. “And the logic says you envy him because you can’t be him, and he envies you because he never could.”

Phainon didn’t answer. He just watched the rain trace lines down the glass.

When she left, he stayed. The garden felt vast and quiet, until he noticed movement below.

Through the gauze of vines and light, Mydeimos sat beneath a lantern, book open on his lap. He wasn’t reading, not really; his eyes were still, his jaw unclenched for once. The tension he carried had slipped away, replaced by a silence that looked almost peaceful.

Phainon watched him, the way one might watch a statue and then realize it was breathing.

He thought of saying something, a joke, a goodnight, anything to ease the strange pull in his chest, but the words stayed in his throat.

For a moment, he just stood there, the rain whispering against the leaves, the air between them charged with all the things neither had yet learned how to say.

And when Mydeimos lifted his gaze, just once, toward the terrace above, their eyes met through the rain.

It lasted only a second. But Phainon felt it like gravity.

If the Grove of Epiphany had been a meditation, Janusopolis was a heartbeat: loud, quick, and alive.

By the time their airship broke through the cloud layer, the horizon glittered like a spilled constellation over the sea. The city never stood still. Rings of light traced its districts — markets, ports, and towers — all revolving around one another like the gears of a living clock. Bridges arched between them in sweeping curves, carrying ceaseless streams of people, airship, and sound.

Where the Grove whispered its wisdom in wind and water, Janusopolis shouted its truth in bargains and handshakes. It was commerce made into chorus, chaos honed into rhythm, and somehow, it worked.

At the heart of the city stood the Gate of Worlds, an immense arch of steel and glass that shimmered with shifting symbols — a monument to both trade and ambition. Beneath it waited Mayor Tribios, flanked by aides but commanding the space as if she needed none.

Phainon smiled the moment he saw her. He had always enjoyed her company, sharp in wit and generous in spirit, and still remembered their last meeting back at the Summit with a certain fondness. When their eyes met, Tribios beamed with that same familiar, disarming warmth. 

She was nothing like anyone expected of a head of state: younger than most, dressed simply in a dove-gray dress and a wine-red overcoat, yet when she smiled, the entire delegation seemed to breathe easier.

“Phainon!” she called, spreading her arms as if greeting family. “You finally return to my city, and this time, you’ve brought royalty.”

Turning to Mydeimos, her tone shifted to a gracious formality. “Your Highness, Janusopolis has long admired Kremnos’s diligence and pride. I’m honored to finally welcome the Lion Prince himself.”

Her words were diplomatic, but her smile was pure hospitality, the kind that could melt suspicion faster than fire could burn paper. Mydeimos inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her greeting with quiet respect.

Tribios clapped her hands once, briskly but not without affection. “Come, both of you. You look half-starved from the trip. Janusopolis feeds its guests before it questions them, that’s our only rule.”

Phainon chuckled under his breath. That was Mayor Tribios, equal parts merchant, philosopher, and holiday aunt, making sure everyone ate well, laughed loudly, and left her city richer than when they arrived.

The public tour wound through endless corridors of color and sound — spice markets where saffron clouds drifted through the air, airship docks humming with engines and song, and artisan halls where smiths forged alloys that rang like struck bells.

For the first two days, Mayor Tribios herself accompanied them, greeting vendors by name, pausing to adjust a child’s scarf or laughing with a glassblower about a shipment gone wrong. Her warmth was not performative; it radiated effortlessly, grounding the chaos around her.

By the third day, duty pulled her away, leaving her attendants to guide the delegation through the city’s winding heart. Yet her influence lingered in every open smile and friendly greeting.

Phainon didn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. He’d grown used to diplomacy as performance, all careful smiles and measured gestures, but here, even the formality had rhythm. It was impossible not to be swept up in it. What unsettled him, however, was how often his gaze strayed toward the prince.

At first, he told himself it was curiosity, wanting to see how Mydeimos handled the crowds, whether the ever-disciplined heir could relax in a place so alive with noise and color. But the more they walked, the more Phainon found himself searching for something else entirely.

The faint curve of Mydeimos’s mouth when a merchant offered him candied fruit.

The soft way his expression changed when a child tugged at his sleeve, and he crouched down to listen.

The way his golden eyes warmed, just a little, when sunlight caught the facets of a jeweler’s wares.

Phainon noticed, too, the small things: that Mydeimos preferred sweets over spice, that he always paused near street performers, and that he slowed imperceptibly whenever they passed a bookstore, just enough to glance at the titles displayed in the window before moving on.

The next time it happened, Phainon stepped inside.

For a heartbeat, Mydeimos froze at the entrance, then followed, a faint, almost imperceptible color rising to his cheeks. He ran his gloved fingers along the spines of the books as though afraid to disturb them. Phainon said nothing, only watched as that rigid composure softened, revealing something quiet and startlingly human beneath the armor.

He decided, then and there, that they would visit as many bookshops as Janusopolis could offer. And maybe, before they left, he’d find one perfect book to give to the prince.

Later, at the Plaza of Keys, their guide explained that every gate in the city represented a covenant: trade, knowledge, trust. “This city lives on the belief,” she said, “that no door should ever be closed forever.”

Phainon smiled. “That’s an elegant metaphor.”

The prince’s gaze lifted to the archway of gleaming glass. “In Kremnos,” he said quietly, “we lock doors to protect what’s ours.”

“And in Okhema,” Phainon countered, “we open them to see what we might gain.”

Their guide laughed, eyes bright. “Mayor Tribios would probably answer you that perhaps the future belongs to those who learn to build better hinges.”

The laughter that followed was genuine, and fleetingly, unmistakably, Mydeimos smiled.

On their last evening in Janusopolis, Mayor Tribios hosted a farewell dinner at her residence, a sunlit terrace overlooking the harbor, where ships shimmered like scattered embers on the sea. The air smelled of salt and roasted citrus, and laughter came easily over the clink of glasses.

Tribios, ever the gracious host, let the conversation wander: from trade routes to architecture, from philosophy to the ridiculous spice tolerance of Okheman diplomats. Mydeimos, to Phainon’s surprise, even laughed once, a quiet but genuine sound.

When the talk turned to governance, Tribios folded her hands and regarded them with a knowing smile. “Tell me,” she said, “after your days in Janusopolis, what have you learned about leadership?”

Phainon, ever the diplomat, began first. “That progress doesn’t have to cost the world around it,” he said. “That balance is possible, if you’re willing to listen.”

Mydeimos took a moment longer. “That discipline isn’t just about control,” he said slowly. “Sometimes, it is about trust, knowing when to lead by example and not just to command.”

Tribios nodded, pleased. “Good. You’ve both found halves of the same truth.” She lifted her glass, eyes glinting with amusement and something like pride. “You know, it reminds me of a story we tell our children here, about the twin moons. They were once one body, split apart by time and distance, each following its own orbit. Yet no matter how far they drifted, they still pulled at each other, shaping the same tides.”

Her tone softened, but her words landed with quiet weight. “Trade, diplomacy, leadership, they aren’t about winning. They’re about fairness. And fairness,” she said, turning to Phainon with a wry smile, “isn’t weakness. It’s what gives ambition its shape.”

Later that night, as the stars began to burn through the mist, Tribios saw them off at the landing platform. She pressed a small silver key into each of their hands, the metal cool and finely wrought, engraved with the sigil of Janusopolis.

“The Key of Janus,” she said. “A token of fair passage. Remember: when the world closes doors on you, it’s your choice whether to knock, or to build a new one.”

Phainon turned the key over in his palm, feeling its weight, not just of metal, but of meaning. When he glanced toward Mydeimos, the prince was studying his own key in silence, thumb tracing the ridged edge.

For the first time, Phainon wondered what it felt like for a man surrounded by walls to be given a key instead.

And for a reason he couldn’t name, the thought made his chest ache.

Chapter Text

The air changed before they even landed.

The shuttle descended through a flurry of white, the sky a sheer veil of silver. Below, Aidonia unfolded like a kingdom etched in ice, carved from the heart of a glacier, every tower wall rising in elegant beauty and power, and streets that gleamed with the kind of order only centuries could perfect. Even the banners, lilac and silver, shimmered like frozen silk, beautiful and unyielding.

Phainon pressed a gloved hand against the window, his breath fogging the glass. “Remind me again why people choose to live somewhere where you can’t feel your fingers?”

“Because the cold preserves what heat would spoil,” Mydeimos said, fastening the clasp of his cloak. His tone was calm, but there was something almost reverent in the way his eyes lingered on the horizon, like recognition.

Phainon studied him for a moment. Maybe it was the mountains, the austere beauty of the place, or the unspoken deference woven into its streets, but here, Mydeimos looked at ease. Centered. This city, with its quiet majesty and old power, spoke a language he understood.

Phainon exhaled, muttering, “Spoken like a Kremnoan.”

“Which I am.”

“Unfortunately.”

The corner of Mydeimos’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to thaw something in the air between them.

Aidonia itself mirrored that same paradox. It was a kingdom of refined elegance, carved from patience and precision. Its people prized not only beauty but brilliance, the kind that came from within, not from the surface. In a city built on mining, they had learned to tell the difference between false glitter and true worth. Though the air stayed cold most of the year and their manners often seemed the same, Aidonians were known to host the most dazzling celebrations in Amphoreus. Perhaps it was because they understood what it meant to live surrounded by ice, and thus, how to keep the warmth alive.

The Citadel Eirene was magnificent in the way still water is magnificent: all symmetry, no movement. Its great hall glittered beneath chandeliers of carved ice and suspended crystal, every facet refracting the candlelight into shifting constellations above. No expense had been spared: gold-flecked table runners, orchestral quartets playing from frozen balconies, wines decanted into vessels that smoked faintly with cold.

Phainon felt immediately out of place. He’d attended state dinners before, but nothing that felt quite this orchestrated. Every gesture here had lineage, every silence had pedigree. He was a diplomat by training, not nobility by blood. The difference showed in the way eyes lingered: curious at best, politely dismissive at worst.

Mydeimos, however, was in his element. The prince moved through the throng of nobles like a blade through water, precise, graceful, unerring. When the courtiers came forward — one after another, eager to present themselves to the famed heir of Kremnos — Phainon simply fell into step behind him, matching his posture, and mimicking his cadence. Mydei knew how to bow just so, how to say little but mean much. It was a language Phainon could only approximate.

He tried to keep up, smiling when addressed, offering practiced lines about trade and diplomacy. But when the murmurs shifted toward Mydeimos, the prince’s rumored composure, his impeccable lineage, Phainon found himself fading into the gilded background.

Then Princess Castorice appeared, radiant as the hall itself. Her gown shimmered like snowfall, her crown a lattice of pale diamonds that caught the torchlight and scattered it in gentle halos. “Welcome to Aidonia,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “We have been following your journey with admiration.”

Phainon bowed, too low, perhaps, but her smile remained kind. Mydeimos, beside him, inclined his head in that perfect Kremnoan angle of respect, revealing nothing yet offering everything required. Castorice’s gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer, some quiet recognition passing between them, two heirs who understood the invisible crown that came with being born into expectation.

As they spoke, their words flowed easily, polished, diplomatic, tinged with genuine understanding. Castorice laughed once, light as breaking glass, and Mydeimos’s expression softened in response.

Phainon watched from a half-step away, his glass of frostwine untouched. He told himself the ache in his chest was nothing, just the chill of the air or the weight of etiquette pressing too tightly against his ribs. But when Mydeimos smiled, really smiled, at something the princess said, the ache deepened, sharp and bright as the crystals glittering above.

The days in Aidonia were a whirl of ceremony and snowlight. Every morning began with pageantry, processions through marble avenues, formal luncheons beneath chandeliers of frostglass, receptions where conversation glittered as sharply as the crystalware. There were tours of the famed ice mines, audiences with scholars and tradesmen alike, and an endless cascade of dinners hosted by nobles eager to impress the visiting heirs.

Phainon endured it with his usual blend of charm and mischief, smiling until his cheeks ached, offering quips that made courtiers laugh just enough to forget he was not one of them. The days left him bone-tired, his voice raw from diplomacy. But Mydeimos never faltered. Whether standing in a blizzard beside a mining overseer or offering a toast before a hundred nobles, the prince moved through each event with unshakable poise. He didn’t simply attend these affairs, he held them in his orbit, without ever needing to try.

By the fourth night, after yet another lavish dinner in the Crystal Gallery, Phainon’s tolerance for etiquette had worn thin. The nobles had dispersed to their private salons, music echoing faintly through the vaulted corridors. He slipped out onto one of the outer walkways for air, exhaling frost into the stillness.

That was when he heard them.

He hadn’t meant to listen, truly, he hadn’t. But voices carried easily in the crystalline air, and when he turned the corner, he saw Mydeimos and Princess Castorice standing on a balcony overlooking the frozen lake. Moonlight pooled around them, pale and sharp as glass.

Castorice softly spoke. “Do you ever tire of it? The gazes. The heavy crown.”

Mydei’s reply was low, thoughtful. “It is not the gaze that exhausts me. It is wondering whether there is anything left of me beneath it.”

Phainon’s heart stilled.

Castorice sighed. “We are born to be symbols, it seems. Our names heavier than our hearts.”

Mydei looked at her, and for the first time Phainon heard warmth in his voice. “Then perhaps we should choose kindness as our rebellion. If we must be symbols, let us at least be kind ones.”

Castorice smiled faintly. “A beautiful sentiment, Your Highness.”

A pause, then a quieter tone, one that twisted something inside Phainon.

“Please… call me Mydei. Between friends.”

Phainon’s chest tightened. The sound of that nickname, one that he had not yet earned the right to speak aloud, lodged like a shard of ice when spoken to someone else.

Before he could think better of it, he stepped forward, his voice too bright, too quick. “Am I interrupting?”

Both turned. Castorice’s composure didn’t waver, but Mydei’s posture shifted, that effortless calm sliding back into place like armor being refitted.

“Not at all,” Castorice said graciously. “We were just admiring the view.”

“Yes,” Phainon said, forcing a smile. “It’s… breathtaking.” His gaze caught Mydei’s and held, just long enough for the silence to mean something. “Truly beautiful.”

Neither spoke on the walk back to their quarters. The snow creaked beneath their boots, the air heavy with unsaid things. Phainon told himself the ache in his chest was irritation, nothing more. Irritation that the prince who called him a distraction could so easily unbend for someone else.

But the lie tasted colder than the wind.

The last few days in Aidonia blurred into more dinners, dances, and a seemingly endless parade of faces and titles. Mydei had endured worse, but something about this place, all polish and frost, felt heavier. Phainon had grown quieter. Colder, perhaps. Mydei noticed the change but told himself it was the weather. Aidonia froze even the friendliest of souls.

Still, the distance unsettled him.

When he finally found Phainon, it was by accident, or so he told himself. The sound of steel striking stone drew him toward one of the training halls, its doors half open, spilling torchlight into the corridor.

Inside, Phainon moved with focused fury. His black undershirt clung to his body, the sheen of sweat catching the flame’s glow. Each strike flowed into the next: clean, deliberate, angry.

Mydei’s gaze lingered too long before he caught himself and looked away, heat pricking at his cheeks despite the cold.

He has impeccable form, Mydei thought. Posture like a soldier experienced in battle, though I doubt he has reason to pick up a sword as a diplomat. He wondered, not for the first time, how Phainon would fare in real combat, not words and ceremony, but steel and consequence.

He stepped forward. “You should rest,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Tomorrow we depart early.”

Phainon didn’t look up. “I’ll rest when I feel like it.”

Mydei’s tone cooled. “You’re reckless.”

“And you’re perfect. We can’t all be blessed.” Phainon swung his practice blade again, harder this time. “Or cursed.”

For a moment, silence. Then Mydei stepped onto the floor, unbuckling his cloak. “Show me.”

Phainon blinked. “What?”

“If you’re going to take out your frustration on something, let it be someone who can strike back.”

He picked up a practice sword from the racks and assumed his stance. The challenge was clear.

It began almost playfully. Feints, parries — the clean ring of steel against steel cutting through the cold air. Phainon was quick, unpredictable; Mydei was precise, every movement measured and sure.

“Sloppy,” Mydei said after turning aside a careless strike.

“Smug,” Phainon shot back, breath misting in the chill.

Their rhythm quickened. Metal sang. Sparks of frost burst each time their blades met. What began as practice slipped into something else, something rawer, more revealing.

Phainon pressed forward with restless energy, emotion flickering through every strike. Mydei matched him, step for step, the tempo of their blades tightening like a heartbeat.

Even in combat, they were equals, neither dominating, neither yielding. Mydei felt the realization settle somewhere deep in his chest: the strange, quiet recognition that Phainon met him in ways no one else ever had. Not just in skill, but in will. In understanding.

And for one brief, treacherous moment, something inside him fell into place, the rhythm, the balance, the pull he’d spent weeks denying.

Then Phainon lunged, too hard, too close, driven by something he couldn’t name. The blade slipped past Mydei’s guard, grazing skin before he could pull back.

The sound that followed was soft but sharp, a hiss, a catch of breath.

A line of crimson welled against the white of Mydei’s sleeve,

Phainon froze. “I—”

Mydei caught his breath, eyes dark with something unreadable. “You wanted to win,” he said quietly. “You just don’t know what for.”

Phainon swallowed. “Maybe I do.”

Neither moved. The air between them hummed, something fragile and electric.

Then the door burst open; aides rushed in, voices colliding. Cameras flashed. The moment shattered. Mydei let the sword fall from his hand with an empty clang.

By morning, the official press release described it as “a display of camaraderie and mutual respect between Okhema and Kremnos.”

Phainon stared at the headline on his tablet and almost laughed. Mutual respect. That wasn’t what had filled the air last night. At least this one won’t be an international incident, with the way Castrum Kremnos respects strength and ability in battle.

He caught Mydei’s reflection in the glass window across the hall, arm bandaged, expression unreadable. Their eyes met for an instant. No words, only the echo of that fight still pulsing beneath their skin.

Phainon looked away first.